


narandam

by vylit



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-01
Updated: 2006-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-21 02:03:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vylit/pseuds/vylit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orange Blossom Lane was the first place where they stayed for longer than a month, where Sam knew the woman next door's name was Hua because she made him fresh orange juice, because she had fingers bent from arthritis and liked to smoke one Newport after another while talking about her years in China, and not because she was the neighbor, relative, friend of someone who'd died.</p>
            </blockquote>





	narandam

The house at 2416 Orange Blossom Lane was old, worn down and ramshackle, with peeling paint, dirt permanently ground into the wooden steps, and a basement with an old, wet, musty smell from water damage. It'd been the home of a friend of the brother of another hunter, left empty and unused until they'd moved in the summer Sam turned fourteen. It slouched next to the railroad tracks, dead grass and overgrown bushes reaching onto the porch, a haze of dust coming from the carpet when they took their first steps inside. 

They spent the first day sanding and scrubbing and hammering. When Dean asked why, Dad just looked at him until Dean nodded his head and went back to work. And when, an hour later, Dean brought his cassettes into the house and started yelling, "dirty deeds done dirt cheap," Sam threw a rag at his head.

They worked until they were drenched in sweat, until the light was faint, and then took turns using the shower that only kept hot water for the first five minutes. They ate their ham and swiss sandwiches on rye with extra mustard, sitting on the floor in the living room, Sam and Dean leaving yellow blotches on the newspaper.

* * *

Sam had his own room in the corner of the first floor with books piled up next to a limp mattress and a bag of weapons. He had sleepless nights because the house was loud and unfamiliar, the train ran late at night, and he couldn't hear Dean breathe or the sound of Dad up late, marker and pen dragging against paper.

Orange Blossom Lane was the first place where they stayed for longer than a month, where Sam knew the woman next door's name was Hua because she made him fresh orange juice, because she had fingers bent from arthritis and liked to smoke one Newport after another while talking about her years in China, and not because she was the neighbor, relative, friend of someone who'd died.

It was where Sam learned to associate streets with the people who lived there and not the tragedies they'd had, where he learned that he liked waking up to the smell of old wood and orange blossoms from the tree outside, where he learned what it'd be like to maybe live like everyone else, where he learned to want to be like them.

* * *

Two months after they'd moved in, Sam came home from school and found circles in the newspaper, Dean with his bags packed, and Dad tracing their route on a new map.

"Get your stuff ready. It's time to go," Dad said, not looking up.

It took Sam a half an hour to pack. Fifteen minutes to throw his things into his bags and another fifteen to agree to it, Dean's voice quiet as he said, "Sammy, you knew this wasn't gonna last" and "we can't" and "you have to" and "you didn't think we were going to stay here forever, did you?" 

Sam was angry and resentful enough to ignore Dad's calls to hurry up, but not pissed enough to say anything when Dean helped him carry his bags out to the car.

And when they'd pulled out of the driveway, Sam watched Hua's cigarette shine and her arm make waves in the darkness until they were too far away for him to see anything at all.

"We'll get you a new book next time we find a place," Dean said, leaning into the backseat. Sam said nothing at all, not knowing how to explain to Dean that a book wasn't going to change anything, wasn't going to fix what was wrong. "Maybe --" Dean leaned closer. "Maybe we can even come back sometime."

* * *

Stanford was between San Francisco and San Jose, between DeanandDad and the life Sam wanted to live. It was large buildings, larger classes, too many students, and then, then it was Jess.

Jess wanted to be an elementary school teacher, loved the color pink, and had an older sister who was a nurse in New Mexico. 

Jess, who on their fifth date, picked Sam up in her car and drove north. She refused to tell Sam where they were going even when she stopped by the side of the road in the middle of houses and trees and pulled Sam's arm saying, "Come on. Come on!" 

She dragged him by the hand, her smile wide as she pulled and pushed and stopped every few minutes to kiss him, and then they were over the rise and in a grove of orange trees.

"I grew up ten minutes from here," she'd said, walking ahead of him and stopping at a tree. She rose up on her tiptoes and picked an orange off. "We'd get vodka, and we'd be out here all night, drinking and eating oranges." 

She peeled the first one for him, her nails digging into the rind and her voice low as she told him about getting in trouble for sneaking out to a U2 concert, her best friend Ally, and the time she'd died her hair blue.

"Here," she said, holding out a section of the orange, its juice running down her hand. "I bet it'll be the best you've ever had."

* * *

They're in Florida, on their way to a job, when Dean stops by a sign that says "ORA GES FOR SAL ." The letters have faded on the wooden sign, but Sam can smell them before Dean even opens the door.

"Come on," Dean says, and when Sam doesn't move, Dean bends down toward the window. "Don't you want some? You used to eat the damn things all the time."

"Nah. Go on. I think I lost my taste for them," Sam says, never taking his eyes off the road.

 

end.


End file.
